Repentance
by Brit-bound
Summary: There are many hard lessons to be learned in the sometimes brutal and sometimes unforgiving world of twelfth century England. Tom's spritual journey has taught him much about the necessity of turning from evil whenever possible and embracing forgiveness wherever offered. It is a lesson he must pass on, no matter how painful.


_The historical period in which Tom Builder and his family found themselves was an era very different from our own, in many ways. I ask you to keep that in mind as you read this story. _

_Ken Follett's original portrayal of Tom as a deeply spiritual man and John Pielmeier's similar depiction in the TV series shaped my vision of the master builder and his times. I think one of Follett's aims was to show that people in twelfth century Europe inhabited a world where matters of the spirit were of primary importance and laid a heavy claim on their time and attention. Unfortunately, not every one who bowed the knee to the church understood its message or sought to emulate the Messenger it purported to represent, as both the book and the series made clear. Tom, in fact, appears to have been in the minority in his humble concept and sincere devotion._

_Some scenes in this story may be disturbing for readers who are able to evaluate it only from a twenty-first century perspective. I believe, however, that the story is true not only to the time but to the setting, the mores, the customs and the perceptions Tom apparently told his creators he believed in and lived by. And when this good and wise man speaks, even to those who first gave him his voice, it is a prudent thing to listen._

_I beg the reader's indulgence, as well, in some language that may appear a bit too modern, but the terminology mirrors that adopted by Mr. Follett in his book that started this whole wonderful obsession, and I chose not to depart from it._

‑‑‑

It beckoned. The well-worn, work-scarred box sat in its familiar corner and exerted an influence so powerful it could not be denied. It was as though some spirit within recognized the opportunity in the all-but-empty house and chose the moment well to weave its beguiling spell.

Fingers trembling with anticipation heeded the call, worked the worn clasp and gently folded back the hinged edges to reveal the marvels within. The objects were entirely familiar: a length of metal, straight-edged and true, thin and narrow, for marking off short and perfect lines and ‑‑ if need be ‑‑ evaluating their length; a compass to create circles and bits of circles; two sharp-tipped styli to put to use when the box's owner needed to sketch an idea; the much-wielded mallet, adept at forcing other tools to do their job; a set of chisels with blade tips suited for a variety of spaces, materials and finishing styles; three hammers with job-accommodating sizes and distinctive heads; a trusty trowel whose well cared for blade mimicked the respect Tom Builder showed for all his tools; a small carving knife and sharpening stone; and several simply but perfectly carved and delicate templates formed from ash wood, not even half so thick as a man's small finger.

Familiar, all, but invested with such creative magic they could only be lifted out and displayed, with the greatest of reverence and care, in careful fashion on the dwelling's single table.

This was forbidden territory. Each piece represented an investment in the family's future; for a stonemason, a master builder, was nothing without his tools. And Tom could as well cope minus his fingers as these clean edges and sharp points and dull heads that were inanimate extensions of his hands.

If only – if only, someday … But it was too much for which to hope. Tom's skill was a blessing bestowed by God for His glory, according to the builder himself, and not something that could, or would, be granted to assuage a selfish creative hunger in any other, especially not one so unworthy. The most that could be hoped for were quiet and private moments such as this one, when dreams might take on slightly more density as palms hefted and fingers traced the pieces Tom employed with such grace.

The hour was later than it seemed, the candle's flame having fed on far more of the pungent, smoking fat than seemed possible. Solitude could not reasonably be sustained, and discovery might be imminent. And so each implement was carefully replaced, the box sides folded in securely, the clasp set to its task and the tool holder hefted from its spot atop the table. Six quick steps and it would be safe in its accustomed resting place.

There was the sound of the smallest agonized crack, the slightest of protesting pinches against a bare heel. Awareness pooled swiftly in the pit of the stomach, even before round and startled eyes took in the sight of the most intricately formed template, splintered on the hard-packed dirt floor, where it had been crushed by a hurry-blinded footstep.

Familiar voices that were heralding a homecoming dictated decisions. The box was hurriedly stashed in its place, the broken-winged template driven deep in a pocket, the worry-flushed face focused on stirring up the flame beneath the cooking pot. The secret was hidden.

But it could not remain so.

Two days later, the nagging sense that something was not quite right attracted Tom's full attention and he took careful inventory of the toolbox. The loss he discovered was an agonizing one. The template represented his image of the intricate design he planned to have grace the apex of each of his revolutionary windows, where it would naturally draw the eye in wonder. He had spent weeks' worth of nights, working while his family slept and sacrificing rest his body longed for, in obedience to his hectic imagination, creating the perfectly balanced whirls and swirls that would engage the worshipers' focus on the light.

He had placed it reverently and securely in a protective wooden pocket at the back of the box and had felt a spirit-surge each time his eye encountered it as he went through his busy days. He allowed himself to hold it, to trace and minutely perfect its shape and to sand its surface with damp grains rubbed with soft wool scraps only at his own table in his own home. If it were missing, the thief shared his bread. It was a double loss.

"The window template…. It is gone."

Ellen stopped in her collection of coltsfoot from the forest's edge near the village and turned to him with a frown the next Sabbath afternoon. Strictly speaking, she should have been seated beside the resting builder, rather than engaging in the Sabbath-defying task of herb gathering. More strictly speaking, she should never have been near him at all. Neither prohibition concerned her. "But you never take it from the box when you are outside. You only work on it at home. How can that be?" Her face reflected her confusion.

"How can it?" Tom echoed the thought quietly, although he already knew the answer. Ellen found it quickly herself, then, and was sickened in the finding. "You think someone took it. You think Jack has it." Her voice held a bitter note.

He shook his head and kept on tossing single random selections from his handful of pebbles into the shallow stream that ran beside Ellen's favorite herb-hunting spot. "I never said that, luv. Unruffle your mother hen feathers. I only know the choices are not so very great. It must be yours or mine."

She dropped to her knees beside him on the narrow shelf of rock that reached over the stream. "But there is no reason for either of them to want it. What could they do with it?" Her brow was creased with worry, for she was frightened that Jack would somehow prove to be the culprit. He was not perfect, her son. And well she knew it. Had he not all but confessed to her his part in burning the old church on that night that changed all their lives and gave them a new start here in Kingsbridge? Still, she could see no benefit in the taking. Alfred was the far more likely culprit. Alfred, because … well, just because. Because he was not hers. And she could not bear it if Jack had wounded Tom so. She, who had not raised her hand to Jack since he was toddling about and had to be discouraged from venturing too near the riverbank without her with an attention-garnering smack on his chubby thigh, would beat him herself, or hand Tom the strap and count the licks if he had broken faith in such a way. It had to be Alfred. Please, let it be Alfred. Although the idea that the boy could steal something so precious from his own father made the bile rise in her throat, as well.

"It could be that it is not our sons." She desperately wanted him to consider some other possibility. "Mayhap someone found the chance to take it while you were distracted at the cathedral. Or someone broke in while we were sleeping, or while we were all away … someone who wants to cause trouble for you."

He shook his head quietly. "No one knows of it. Just us. Just my family. Besides, the box is never out of my sight, from the time I leave home with it until I return. And if a thief broke in, why did he choose that template? Any tool in the box would have more value than the design. It has meaning only for me and my plans."

"But there is no reason for Jack or Alfred to take it, either. Can you not see that? They know they would be looked at first. And besides, what could they hope to do with it – sit and admire it when they were alone? Unless …." She raised angry eyes to engage his. "Unless Alfred took it, hoping you would blame Jack. He might even have planted it in Jack's things."

Tom laughed bitterly. "What things? Have any of us so many things we have a choice of many hiding places? And why not say Jack took it to lay blame at Alfred's door, if that is the game you think is played?"

Ellen had the grace to blush under his steady gaze. "Still, we should search. Both boys."

"I have. Neither of them has it. But that is no surprise. I do not think it was taken for its beauty or its value as a mischief-maker. I think it was admired in secret and, most likely, damaged in some way that was never intended, and then it had to be thrown away. I think it started as an innocent desire wrongly approached, and it ended in disaster. I think the destruction of it has been a terrible burden and the hiding of it a sin that begs to be confessed, but one that fear and dread silence."

"Then you know who did it, as well."

His mouth tightened. "I did not. Until now. But in the telling of what cannot be, I have seen what has to be."

"And is it Jack, you are thinking?" Her heart pounded with dread.

He shook his head and she tried not to let her relief show, but he knew her too well. He stood slowly and reached for her hand, helping her to rise. They collected her herb baskets in silence and turned away from the stream and toward the village and home.

"Tom … I am sorry. I could not bear the thought that it might be Jack, and so I was quick to accuse Alfred, but I never wanted it to be your son, either. Not really."

"Then you can rest easy, luv. It is neither my son or yours."

She stopped at the side of the path, the truth of what he was saying washing over her. "Martha," she whispered. "Tom, you think it was Martha?"

His sigh was heavy with grief. "I know it was. Now that I have looked at it from all sides, it must be. Last Lord's day, when you and I went to the cave to get the nuts and seeds you wanted, Alfred was fishing – remember, we saw him on the riverbank coming and going – and Jack was at the crypt with the good prior. Philip told me the next day what a pleasant time he spent telling your son the joys of the priesthood. Martha said she was going for a walk with Nadia. But the girl's father told me on Monday that Nadia was sick with the headache all day and could not abide the light in her eyes. I did not think of what that meant for Martha until now. But I see that she had quite some time all to herself. I see, too, that she has not been herself since then, and it has grown worse each day."

"It was an accident then, as you said." Ellen affirmed it with a relieved nod. "It must be dealt with, of course, but somehow it seems less than if the boys …" Her voice trailed of as she caught sight of his face.

"It is not less. Not because she is a girl. And not because she is younger. It is, in fact, more, because I think it is not a new thing. And that is my fault. I have turned a blind eye to things I would have dealt with and had it over with for Alfred or even Jack. You remember Jack's missing ring? I think it likely Martha knows where it is. And smaller things, besides. Agnes always took Martha in hand, so I never had to. And even you … I have let you manage her faults when the job should have been mine to correct her."

"But she is a good girl, Tom. I have never needed to do more than scold her or give her a few extra chores."

"Then I am glad of it. But she could be a better girl. She could be a girl who does not sneak, who asks rather than going behind my back. She could be a girl who confesses her wrong and accepts her punishment. But I have never held her to that standard, so part of the fault is mine. No matter. It is something I must deal with now."

They walked on in silence, passing neighbors who strolled near the village or sat outside their simple dwellings in the late, sweet, summer afternoon sun. Men called simple greetings to Tom and their womenfolk smiled in appreciation of his green eyes, framed by his dark hair and beard, and of his broad shoulders and long, strong legs. Their nods in Ellen's direction lacked warmth, though, and their husbands knew better than to watch her sinuous glide along the path too long.

She refused to care. Tom and their children were her world in its entirety. It was a small community, but more than double what she had known for years, and she was better than content in it. She could not help but be grateful those relationships would not be strained, as she had feared when she thought Alfred or Jack must be guilty. Martha's behavior boasted none of the complications surrounding everything the boys were involved in.

Inside their own hut, she dealt with the fresh store of herbs and then set about preparing a supper for the night. There was enough of the simple vegetables in broth from the noon meal to fill a bowl for each of them, but she knew neither growing boy could lie down for a peaceful night's rest with no more than that. She sliced bread from the previous day's baking, laid it out on the hot griddle at the edge of the fireplace and nudged the slab a little closer to the flame. Sticking a hunk of cheese from the prior's kitchen on a thin metal rod, she held it just out of the flame's reach, angled a long-handled pot under it, and collected the rich drippings as the fire's heat melted the pale golden block. Then she turned the slices of bread to the other side and drizzled each crisped surface with the melted cheese.

By the time their children came home at the close of their week's only reprieve from the labor that marked their lives, a meal was in place that would see them all well-filled through the night.

The boys took their places and waited with ill-concealed hunger lust for Tom to mouth a simple thanks. Their appetites made short work of the food. By contrast, Tom barely touched his broth, and he finally tore his hunk of cheese-dripped bread in half and handed it to the boys.

"This should have been a happy time for us," he said quietly.

"It has been happy for me," Alfred said jovially. "I am full of good food and I beat Little James when we raced today. First time ever. He is the fastest in the village. Until now," he smirked.

Even Jack smiled. "For me, too," he said. "I talked to some of the brothers about Saint Adolphus, and now I have a new idea for the carving."

Ellen nodded. "I am glad for both of you."

Martha was silent, her bowl still full and only one bite gone from her bread and cheese. She was staring miserably at her meal, oblivious to the flow of conversation around her.

"And you, little one," Tom said, reaching out and capturing her small, cold hand. "What have you done today?"

The girl started. "I – nothing. I went for a walk. By myself."

"And what did you think about on this walk by yourself?" her father asked quietly.

She shrugged. "I do not know. I just walked."

"Ellen and I, we walked, as well. I had something important to think about. Something that has been troubling me greatly for several days." He watched Martha carefully, saw her swallow with difficulty and felt her try to disengage her hand.

"Do you know what it is, Martha?" His voice was still quiet and calm. Her reaction, in contrast, was marked by more and more disquiet. Her free hand was clenched in a small fist and she refused to look anywhere but into her now grease-filmed bowl of lukewarm broth. Ellen became aware of unfamiliar whispery sounds and realized it was the girl's bare feet, shifting uneasily over the hard-packed floor.

"N-no, Da." She tried to pull her hand away again. Then, "I will clean the table," she whispered in Ellen's direction.

"Later," Tom said. "It will keep. For now there are other things we must deal with, Martha."

Twin tears tracked down the side of her nose. He watched her sadly, hoping she would give him some reason to show mercy. Alfred and Jack exchanged looks with each other and tried to read the solution to the mystery in their parents' faces. There were no clues, however.

"This is what has been troubling me, Martha. Someone went into my tool box. And when they were finished with whatever they went there for, my best template was missing. It is a loss to me that my work will be hindered. It is more a loss that the guilty one has not trusted me nor loved justice enough to confess a wrong and ask forgiveness. That is the greatest grief."

She jerked her hand away then, knotting her fists at both eyes and gasping brokenly.

"I dinna d-do it."

"What?" Alfred demanded. "What is this about?"

Tom raised his left hand in silent warning to his son, never taking his eyes off Martha's small, miserably hunched figure. Jack turned to his mother, but she simply shook her head at him.

"You make things worse for yourself, little girl. I will ask you now to tell me the truth," Tom said.

In answer Martha scrambled up from her place on the rough bench and made as though to run past her father and out of the house. Tom moved too quickly for her, however, and, grasping her arm, pulled her into his lap. He signaled to Ellen with a sharp nod of his head and she stood and gestured to the boys.

"Your father has business with Martha. Find your own somewhere else."

And then the three of them were gone.

"This is what I think happened," Tom said. "You never walked with Nadia that day. You stayed here alone, and you went into my toolbox. Somehow the template got broken. You hid it or threw it away and put the box back. You thought I would blame Jack or Alfred when I found out. And you did not care about that – not so much as you cared that I might find out the truth and deal with you." He had been holding her tightly in his arms, but when he finished speaking he took her shoulders and pushed her upright so he could see her face. She would have refused to meet his eyes, but he forced her chin up and spoke to her in the sternest voice he had ever directed her way.

"Look at me, Martha, and tell me the truth."

While she had wanted to flee before, she desperately craved the shelter of his arms now, but it was a luxury he would not afford her.

"I am waiting, but I am almost finished. I want this sad business over with one way or the other, little girl. Do not shame yourself with any more lies."

"I dinna l-lie, Da," she wailed.

"You lie when you cover up the truth, and you have labored hard at that. Now, for the last time, tell me what happened."

"I b-br-broke it,"she gasped finally. "I dinna mean to. I w-was afraid."

Tom sighed and shook his head sadly.

"This is the way of it, Martha. You were wrong to sneak and open the toolbox. You know that is not a thing I allow anyone. And the reason is for the very thing that happened. Something was destroyed. Something valuable. I am trusting it was an accident, but it would not have happened if you had obeyed me. If you had confessed, you would have been punished and you would have known you disappointed me. But the punishment would have been mild, and we could have put this behind us right away. Instead, you hid it. And then you went down into that dark pit of lies. That is what troubles me most, little one."

"I am sorry, Da," she cried.

He nodded. "Yes, I imagine you are. But you are only at the beginning of sorry. You have a way to go yet, and it will not be a pleasant journey."

"I will d-do whatever Ellen t-tells me. All the w-work," she bargained while tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Hard work will pay for your disobedience in going into the toolbox to begin with. I will trust Ellen to see to that. But the lies – the lies, little girl, are my job. And when I have finished it, I do not think you will want to hide behind them again."

She met his eyes finally, and the fear and dread in them almost undid him. While he still had the will, he pushed her to her feet and he stood, as well. The house was small. Three steps took him to the bucket near the fireplace that held the thin slabs of ash wood from which he carved his templates. Holding her arm securely still, he felt among the pieces until he found one only slightly more narrow than the palm of his hard, calloused hand. It fit his grip well. And its other dimensions were perfect, as well – twice as long as his hand and almost as thick as his smallest finger.

Martha wailed when he drew it out of the pile and then pulled against him frantically, but there was never any hope she would win the contest.

Three steps had them back at the bench she had so recently vacated, and she was face down over his strong left thigh before she could think how to struggle out of his reach. He moved his right leg to capture both of hers and forbid the frantic kicking that had accompanied her trip over his lap.

His reputation with Alfred and Jack was strong enough that they would have instantly obeyed his commands to prepare themselves for punishment, but Martha had never run head-on into her father's will before and, since she had already proven herself unwilling to co-operate, Tom abandoned any thought of ordering her to accept her punishment in the necessary way. Instead, he set about the business himself, taking hold of the hem of her skirt and the long vest-like garment atop it and folding both back in an untidy pile at the small of her back.

She stiffened and did her best to wriggle out of his reach, but escape was no longer even a remote option. She tried begging instead – "No, Da, n-not like th-that" - but her pleas fell on deaf ears. He laid the slab – one he had previously sanded in preparation for the delicate carving he planned to do – calmly across both her bare white cheeks that were just beginning to take on womanly curves.

"I have never spanked you, little one, and maybe I should have. Maybe then you would have been less likely to disobey me. We will never know about that. But I promise you this, when I am through with you today, you will know what I am willing to do to teach you right from wrong, and you will know whether paying the price is worth it to you. I am telling you now that I will do my best to make sure it is not."

He could not have said how many times he made the improvised paddle rise and fall, but he knew her hand came back in a vain effort to protect herself after the second smack echoed in the small room. He seized her wrist and bent the arm until it lay across the small of her back and out of the way of danger, and then he resumed the measured, stinging spanks that finally covered every inch of her plump little bottom that had the bone-padding protection of fat and muscle just beneath the fiery red layer of skin.

She sobbed and pleaded through the first few seconds, then dissolved unto one long howl punctuated by shrieks when the wood bit deep in an especially tender spot. He was despairing of breaking her will and was second guessing his instincts as he slowed the pace, but kept up the intensity, in a repeat round, when he felt the fight go out of her and she simply collapsed across his thigh, drawing in a long, shuddery, sobbing breath.

His instinct was to fling the wood away from both of them and curse himself for what he had done, but he forced himself to lay the instrument of her correction aside calmly while he blinked back his own tears. Then he unfolded her clothing and covered her shame, lifting her gently and easing her upright and then letting her curl onto his lap. She turned her face into his chest and cried, but they were quiet tears, repentant tears. He held her close with his right arm and tucked her dark head beneath his chin, rocking gently back and forth and crooning softly to her.

"I'm s-sorry, Da," she whispered finally. "Really sorry, and – I love you."

His heart soared. He pushed her gently away and tilted her chin up so he could kiss her forehead and wipe the tears from her face with his rough thumb.

"Da …"

"Yes, my sweet luv."

"Do you – c-can you still love me?" she whispered miserably.

"There will never, ever be an end to my loving you, little one. I know you do not understand, but the thing that just happened here … it was because I love you. Because I will not let you be anything but your best, and I can not bear the thought of the world teaching you the lessons sin makes it necessary for you to learn. They would be far more harsh that what you just went through."

"I dinna want any more lessons, Da. But that is not why …."

He was puzzled and it showed in his gaze.

She began again. "I am not sorry because it h-hurt m-me," she said on a breath that still caught in her throat. "It is be-because it hurt you." And fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

He pulled her to him gently again. "My heart is healed now, my sweet Martha. And yours must be, too. It is over. You have paid the price and asked forgiveness. It is yours from this moment on, little girl, fully and freely. We start out fresh now, with no stain on your soul. All that remains is for you to forgive yourself and remember how much you are loved."

They sat in silence for a long time. He was ready to rise and carry her to her bed, exhausted as they both were, when she stirred in his arms and raised a sleepy head.

"Da?"

"Yes, little one."

"Will God believe me, too, when I say I am sorry? Will He forgive me?"

"I think it is already so with Him, Martha, my luv. All done, for He is a gracious and loving God."

He laid her gently on her side atop the rush-filled mattress on its low wooden platform that served as her bed and covered her carefully with a soft woven length of cloth. Then he knelt beside her and brushed the strands of hair that matched his own back from her tear-reddened face. He kissed her again and stroked her back softly.

"Tomorrow, Martha, when you have finished your chores, we will take out the box. Together. Just the two of us. And I will show you how to handle my tools." He had no idea why he made the promise to a daughter, to one who could not possibly ever use the knowledge. But he knew, too, that it was something he had to do. The look on her face told him that, without doubt.

Some minutes later the door creaked open and three silent, anxious figures crept in. Their eyes took in the table, still littered with the remains of a meal they would not soon forget. They could not ignore the length of ash still resting on the bench where Tom had placed it with a troubled spirit and a trembling hand. The tale told by the scene was one that confirmed their fears.

But there was more to the telling. They learned not the details, but the heart and soul of the story, when they found Tom. He lay with eyes closed, stretched out on the rough floor and facing his daughter's bed. His right arm was raised just enough to curve around her, and his hand rested gently on her back. It was hard to be certain in the flickering light of the fire, but Martha seemed to be smiling softly, as though moving through a happy dream.

Ellen took the blanket from the bed she shared with Tom and spread it gently over him before she made short work of the meal's remains. Jack banked the fire without being reminded. Alfred took up the ash paddle and made to replace it in the bucket. But at the last moment, as one bright, orangey tongue of heat leaped a little higher than the others in the night-time warmth, he tossed it into the center of the flame instead.

And then they, too, slept in perfect peace.


End file.
